es. In bold and
eager youth we go out on our travels: we visit Baalbec and Paphos and
Tadmor and Cythera,--ancient shrines and ancient empires, seats of eager
love or gentle inspiration; we wander far and long; we have nothing to
do with our fellow-men,--what are we, indeed, to diggers and counters?
we wander far, we dream to wander forever--but we dream in vain. A surer
force than the subtlest fascination of fancy is in operation; the
purse-strings tie us to our kind. Our travel coin runs low, and we must
return, away from Tadmor and Baalbec, back to our steady, tedious
industry and dull work, to "la vieille Europe" (as Napoleon said), "qui
m'ennuie." It is the same in thought: in vain we seclude ourselves in
elegant chambers, in fascinating fancies, in refined reflections.

ON EARLY READING

From 'Edward Gibbon'

In school work Gibbon had uncommon difficulties and unusual
deficiencies; but these were much more than counterbalanced by a habit
which often accompanies a sickly childhood, and is the commencement of a
studious life,--the habit of desultory reading. The instructiveness of
this is sometimes not comprehended. S. T. Coleridge used to say that he
felt a great superiority over those who had not read--and fondly
read--fairy tales in their childhood: he thought they wanted a sense
which he possessed, the perception, or apperception--we do not know
which he used to say it was--of the unity and wholeness of the universe.
As to fairy tales, this is a hard saying; but as to desultory reading,
it is certainly true. Some people have known a time in life when there
was no book they could not read. The fact of its being a book went
immensely in its favor. In early life there is an opinion that the
obvious thing to do with a horse is to ride it; with a cake, to eat it;
with sixpence, to spend it. A few boys carry this further, and think
the natural thing to do with a book is to read it. There is an argument
from design in the subject: if the book was not meant for that purpose,
for what purpose was it meant? Of course, of any understanding of the
works so perused there is no question or idea. There is a legend of
Bentham, in his earliest childhood, climbing to the height of a huge
stool, and sitting there evening after evening, with two candles,
engaged in the perusal of Rapin's history; it might as well have been
any other book. The doctrine of utility had not then dawned on its
immortal teacher; _cui bono_ was an id